


A Portrait of the Artist

by firethesound



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Artists, Humor, Interviews, M/M, Unicorns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firethesound/pseuds/firethesound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry Potter, reclusive artist, finally agrees to an interview, Draco can hardly believe that he'll be the one to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Portrait of the Artist

Thursday morning found Draco sitting behind his desk, consuming his third cup of coffee and desperately trying to think of flattering things to write about the 437th annual Snarfalump Festival. Despite spending three days there, the festival participants hadn't given him all that much to work with. Prior to that Monday, Draco had no idea there were enough people in the world who cared that much about Snarfalumps to even fill a festival, but they turned out in droves, proudly displaying their prized plants, holding lively debates on the ideal pot size the Snarfalumps should be planted in or swapping tips on pruning techniques to deal with the beastly foliage's many grasping tentacles.

And the tentacles, oh Merlin, the tentacles. The awful bloody things would grab onto anything and anyone that passed by within their reach. Draco had been groped again and again, and bore it with resigned stoicism until it struck him that this was the most action he'd gotten in the better part of a year. Then it became a struggle to refrain from hexing every plant that reached for him.

Draco wrestled down the urge to beat his head against his desk. He settled for draining the last cold dregs of his coffee and debated the wisdom of having a fourth cup before noon.

“Hey there,” a witch with curly blond hair said cheerfully as she poked her head into his cubicle. “Busy?”

“Good morning, Melinda,” Draco muttered. “And no, I’m nearly done with this article. I’m more or less out of things to say about Snarfalumps.” He sighed and amended, “Nice things, rather.”

“Wonderful, because you’ve got a new assignment.” She held up a folder.

The wide grin on her face told Draco that it was either something really really good, or something like the 437th annual Snarfalump Festival. With some trepidation, he took the folder and flipped it open.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Is this a joke?”

Melinda folded her arms over her impressive bosom. “No joke. Harry Potter, reclusive artist extraordinaire, has finally agreed to an interview.”

Draco couldn’t wrap his head around it. At twenty-five he was one of the most junior writers for the _Daily Prophet_. No way would any of the senior writers pass up the chance to interview their Wonder Boy. A Potter interview would be quite the feather in their journalistic cap, since he hadn’t given one since right after the war ended. Potter had mostly kept to himself in the past few years, though of course he still appeared in the papers with some regularity. It was usually a picture of him doing something mundane, like shopping for groceries or eating in a restaurant, accompanied by a few paragraphs of pure speculation. But the pictures were usually pretty decent. Potter had grown up quite nicely, truth be told, if one could ignore those awful glasses and that bird’s nest hair. And he photographed well, especially in candid shots where he wasn’t glowering at the camera.

Draco had matured enough that he could admit that he might find Potter just the tiniest bit fit, even though they hadn’t seen each other in person since they finished school. Come to think of it, that was probably a large part of the reason he found Potter attractive, certainly moreso than those vivid green eyes of his, or the secretive little smile he had sometimes when he got caught up in his own thoughts and forgot anyone was watching him, or his habit of tucking his hands into his pockets which made him look a little awkward but in a charmingly boyish sort of way, or… Draco hopped off that train of thought as quickly as he could and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. 

“But why me?” he asked.

Melinda shrugged. “He asked for you specifically. I’d get going, if I were you. He wants to do it right away. You should go before he changes his mind.”

Draco nodded, already gathering up his camera and notepads. This article could be the break he was waiting for. If he did a good job of it, he might never have to cover another tentacled plant festival again. He took a few seconds to straighten his robe and pat down his hair -- strictly because he took pride in looking professional, not because he cared about what Potter thought of him, of course -- then Apparated on the spot to the coordinates in the file and knocked on the door to Potter’s studio. 

It opened straightaway, revealing Potter in all his ugly-glasses-bird’s-nest glory, clad in paint spattered jeans and a worn sweater, which somehow looked better on him than the stuffy button-down he’d been photographed in last week. Draco opened his mouth to greet him, but then he caught sight of the paintings and sucked in a gasp instead.

Even though Draco had a hard time imagining Potter as an artist, he never for an instant doubted that he’d be good at it. Because when it came down to it, whatever it was – playing Quidditch, performing feats of magic, slaying megalomaniacal madmen – Potter never did things halfway. So when Draco walked through the door of the narrow little building Potter used for his studio, he was entirely prepared for it to be spectacular.

He wasn’t wrong.

It was indeed spectacular, and striking and sensational and breathtaking in a way that utterly defied words. He couldn’t even bring himself to tear his eyes away from it for the instant it would take to give Potter, who hovered quietly near the door, a proper greeting. Instead Draco found himself drifting past him, deeper into the room, his rapt gaze skipping from painting to painting. They covered the walls, lay in stacks on the floors, and sat propped against any available side of furniture that could support them. There were so many of them, each one more stunning than the last.

“How…” Draco began and trailed off when yet another painting caught his eye and demanded his undivided attention to marvel at it. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Um, about five years now?” Potter said.

Draco stared some more. “And… how many paintings would you say you do in a month?” He finally tore his gaze away from the paintings and met Potter’s eyes for the first time.

Potter scratched at his head. “About four or five? Sometimes less if I’m working on something bigger.”

Draco did some quick mental calculations. That was an impressively large number of paintings.

“Well?” Potter prompted when Draco continued to stare mutely around him. “What do you think?”

“I had absolutely no idea that it was possible for someone to do something so often and for so long and still be this awful at it,” Draco said honestly.

Immediately, he bit his tongue. But to his surprise, Potter only laughed.

“Lovely to see you again, too, Malfoy,” he said.

But Draco was barely listening, his attention captured by a picture of a park. At least, he thought it was a park. The canvas had a big smear of green across the bottom and some green and brown mushroomy things that he might have called trees if he was feeling generous. In the middle of the splotchy blue swath of sky was a great big smiling sun. Draco had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn’t imagining that. But no, the sun had an honest-to-god happy face.

“Like that one, do you?” Potter asked, following Draco’s stare.

“It’s… Why is it smiling?” Draco was beginning to feel a bit shell-shocked.

Potter blinked at him as if he’d asked something ridiculous. “Well how else are you supposed to tell that it’s a nice day?”

Draco’s mouth worked open and shut a few times, but words seemed to have abandoned him. “Right,” he managed at last. “Right, then.”

He did his best to block out the paintings as he turned to face Potter. He pulled out his notepad.

“Oh, are we going to do the interview now?” Potter asked. “Here, we can sit down over there.”

He led the way to a small sofa and settled on one end, leaving Draco to sit on the other side. He angled himself to face Potter and found himself nearly eye to eye with another of Potter’s paintings, this one a dark forest with… Dear Merlin, what was it even a painting of? A demented goat? A deformed bear? A small yak? Whatever it was, its tongue lolled from its mouth in what Draco generously assumed was meant to be a smile, and its bulging eyes seemed to follow him wherever he moved.

“What are you…” Potter began and turned around to look at what Draco was seeing. “Oh. Do you like that one? It’s one of my favorites.”

Draco bit his tongue as the words ‘What the hell is it?’ nearly came out of his mouth. Instead, utilizing a skill for diplomacy that he hadn’t known he possessed, he asked “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“What’s to tell?” Potter asked, turning back to face Draco. “It’s obviously a unicorn.”

“Obviously,” Draco repeated helplessly. “Um. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to question your... artistic vision. But unicorns are... white. And that is… not white.”

Potter gave him another incredulous stare. “It’s a white canvas, Malfoy. How am I supposed to paint a white unicorn on a white canvas? Besides, it’s dark in the forest. It’s a unicorn in shadow.”

Draco squinted for a moment and then gave up. “Right.” He shifted so Potter’s head blocked the ‘unicorn’ from view. “Why don’t we begin with you telling me a bit about your creative process?”

Potter shrugged. “I just paint whatever I feel like. I see pictures in my head and I put them on canvas. It’s not hard.”

Against his better judgment, Draco couldn’t resist leaning around Potter for another look at the goat-bear-yak-unicorn-in-shadow. _That_ was what lived in Potter’s head? Maybe he’d been better off with Voldemort in there. Maybe they’d all been a bit hasty with the Dark Lord-slaying. Dear Merlin, those eyes. They really did seem to follow him as he moved...

He didn’t realize he was staring at it until Potter turned in his seat to look behind him again.

“You really are taken by that painting,” he said, his voice bright and pleased. “You can have it if you like it so--”

“No!” Draco yelped as sheer panic took hold. Potter whipped back around to face him, startled. Draco lowered his voice. “I mean, no. No, I couldn’t. Because...” It will give me nightmares to have in my house. “Because...” The last thing I want is for _that thing_ to watch me as I drink tea or brush my teeth or, Merlin forbid, entertain a gentleman friend. “Because... I’m writing your article. Yes, I couldn’t take it because I am writing your article and must maintain my professional integrity.” 

There, that sounded nice. Nice and plausible.

Potter nodded. “Right, of course. Well if you’re still thinking about it after the article’s published, come by and get it.”

Draco nodded back. “I assure you that, er, _unicorn_ is something I won’t forget anytime soon. Now, moving along.” He shuffled through some papers and cleared his throat. “What made you decide to become an artist?”

“After I quit the Aurors I was looking for something to do to keep myself occupied. I’ve always enjoyed drawing and thought I might give it a try,” Potter said. He grinned at Draco. “I guess it’s lucky I turned out to be so good at it, yeah?

Draco just let that one go. “And why have you just now decided to give an interview? You’ve been notoriously reclusive about your...” Say it, Draco, just say it. “Your _art_ for years. Why now?”

“Well, as you can see I now have quite a few paintings,” Potter said, gesturing around them and Draco nodded, not taking his eyes from Potter. He could feel that unicorn thing staring at him, even blocked by Potter’s unruly hair. “I wanted to build up a collection before I made my debut.”

“Your debut?” Draco repeated helplessly.

“Of course!” Potter said. “I’ve been very secretive with my work, as I’m sure you know. But now that I’ve built up a backlog of paintings, I’m going to make my debut and there will be plenty for everyone to buy.”

Wait, what? Potter wanted to charge money for these things? “You’re going to sell them?”

“Of course!” Potter said again. “Who wouldn’t want to own a Harry Potter original?” He flung his arms wide and his eyes gleamed. “My paintings are about to go forth and find new homes all over the world!”

And after that, Draco didn’t think there was anything more to say. He stood up.

“I think I ought to look through some of your work, you know, see if there are any I think would show well in the paper.”

Draco slowly walked the perimeter of the room, looking over the paintings hung on the walls with Potter trailing close behind. He let his eyes slide over them and did his best to avoid eye contact with the ones that stared back. He could still feel that terrible unicorn-in-shadow staring at the back of his head. He did his best to ignore it.

He stopped in front of a painting that depicted an arched grey smear connecting one green splotch with another over a blotchy swath of blue. “That’s a lovely bridge?” he ventured.

Potter nodded eagerly. “Tower Bridge,” he said. “I think it came out especially nice.”

Draco could only assume that Potter had never actually seen Tower Bridge, or the Thames based on that bright shade of blue he’d chosen for it. But he nodded back and moved along to the next painting, emboldened by his success with the bridge.

He paused in front of a painting of a large beige blob with a riot of red along the top. “Uh, flapjacks with strawberries?” he guessed.

Potter looked hurt. “That’s a portrait of Ron.”

Draco opened his mouth, shut it again, and drew in a deep breath. “I’ll admit it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Weasley, but I distinctly recall him having eyes the last time I saw him. And a mouth. And a nose, and ears.”

Potter stared at him, then stared up at the painting, then his shoulders slumped. “I thought it didn’t look quite right.” He sniffed loudly. “I’m a horrible artist, aren’t I?”

Yes, Draco most definitely agreed. Potter was the worst artist Draco had ever seen (including his entire kindergarten class) and he was likely entirely deranged to boot, but at the moment he looked so defeated that Draco couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. “No, no,” he said. “Not... horrible, per se. You’re actually quite... ah. Creative. It’s just that your technique is... Well. Just still, uh, you’re still improving, right?” Potter screwed up his face and trembled. Oh fucking hell, he was about to _cry_ and Draco just could not handle that. His eyes fell on a painting of a dog frolicking in a field and he seized upon it. “Look here, this one’s not too bad. It’s a pretty decent dog.”

Potter sniffed again and peered over his shoulder. “That’s a horse.”

Draco blinked up at Potter. “…are you sure?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Yes I’m sure,” Potter said with a frown, and pointed. “See? It’s wearing a saddle.”

Draco squinted down at the painting. “That’s a saddle? I thought it was a dog with a spot.”

“No, it’s clearly a saddle. See there? There’s the little thing you stick your foot in.”

Draco tilted the painting a bit in the vain hope that a different angle might give him some insight. The only insight he got was the idea that maybe it was time for Potter to get a new prescription on his glasses. Or possibly a psychiatric evaluation. “…are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure. I painted it, didn’t I?” Potter snapped. “Will you quit questioning my artistic vision?”

Draco hesitated. “To put a saddle on a dog?”

Potter heaved a sigh. “It’s a horse!”

“I…” Draco tilted the painting the other way and then set it aside. “Right. A horse. Yes.” He stood. “I was going to just take a picture of you standing with your work, but I was thinking…”

“Yes?” Potter prompted when Draco trailed off.

“I was thinking…” Draco said again, his mind frantically working because the only thing he’d been thinking was that he couldn’t put any of these appalling paintings in the paper. Contrary to popular belief, Draco didn’t actually enjoy kicking puppies, and poor Potter obviously had something wrong with him if he was capable of producing this shite without being embarrassed by it. 

“I was thinking,” he said again. “That it’d be interesting to get a few shots of you in action. Sort of show your process and all.”

Potter’s face lit up. “You want me to paint something for you?”

“Er, no, that’s not necessary. You could just sort of stand by an easel with a paintbrush and I’ll take a few pictures...”

But Potter was already bustling around his studio, fetching a blank canvas and an assortment of paints. “Oh no, this’ll be my pleasure!”

And Draco didn’t like the look of his smile. Not at all.

“Wonderful,” he said with a resigned sigh. “I’ll get my camera.”

 

****

 

The story ran a week later.

Overall, Draco was pleased with it. He’d managed to take the steaming pile of shite that Potter had given him and turn it into a halfway decent article. He’d talked a bit about Potter’s studio, which really was a nice building, open and airy with large windows and lots of light. And all the paintings, of course. He’d made sure to mention how they’d rendered him speechless. And then he’d padded it a bit by talking a bit about Potter’s history and the war. Readers never tired of hearing about Potter and the war.

Draco had printed it with the only decent picture of the lot he’d taken, the one where Potter had just touched paintbrush to canvas, the late-afternoon sun slanting in through the window and lighting his hair like a halo. Potter looked contemplatively at the canvas, paintbrush dangling loosely from one hand, then he raised it and brushed one stroke of violet across the canvas before the picture looped.

The photos that followed that first one started out unsettling and grew increasingly disturbing from there, as the squid (The octopus? Some other betentacled sea creature?) that emerged onto the canvas slowly took form and Potter's smile had grown more manic by the shot. The final few had been downright horrific, when Potter had taken on the fanatical look of some sort of mad scientist, staring down at his monstrous creation with a terrifying benevolence. The jellyfish (The squid? Really, what the hell _was_ it?) stared out from the easel with lopsided eyes, one of which looked befuddled, the other malevolent, while its noodly tentacles tangled around it in a vaguely menacing way.

Yes, all in all, Draco thought he’d done rather well.

So it caught him utterly by surprise when he received a tersely worded Owl from Potter.

“We need to talk about your bloody article,” it read. “Come now.”

He went right away. Outside Potter’s studio, he hesitated, taking a few moments to steel himself for what lurked beyond that door, then raised his fist and knocked.

Potter must have been waiting just behind the door because he jerked it open before Draco could even lower his hand.

“What the hell, Malfoy?” he snapped, eyes blazing.

Draco could only blink dumbly and follow Potter into his studio as he stomped to a table and snatched up a newspaper. “What?”

“This!” Potter shook the paper in Draco’s face, and Draco recognized his article. “What the hell is this!?”

Irritated, Draco swatted the paper away. “That is the article I wrote, as I’m sure you know.”

“And that picture?” Potter demanded. “I hadn’t even painted anything yet!”

“What should I have done, Potter?” he spat, digging through his bag and snatching up the first picture he saw. It was one of the later ones in the series, where the whatever-the-fuck-it-was had mostly emerged onto the canvas and Potter was staring at it with that terrifying mania lighting his eyes while his mouth twisted up in a truly unsettling rictus. “Should I have published this?” Draco thrust the picture at Potter’s face.

Potter’s anger drained away in an instant and his eyes went comically round behind his glasses and he blinked a few times. “Oh. Oh wow.” He took the picture to get a better look at it and nudged his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “That’s really quite horrible, isn’t it?”

“That’s the stuff of nightmares, Potter,” Draco said flatly.

Potter frowned at the picture, then frowned at Draco. “And why didn’t you publish it? Aside from not wanting to scare small children because I can see where that might be a legitimate concern. But it’s terrible.” He waved an arm at his studio. “All of these are terrible. Why didn’t you write about that?”

Draco drew himself up. “I was trying to be nice,” he said stiffly.

“You were trying...” Potter trailed off and gave a snort, which quickly bloomed into a laugh that seemed to come rumbling up all the way from his toes.

Draco had seen Potter caught helplessly in the throes of laughter before, with his friends in the Great Hall or with his teammates on the Quidditch Pitch, but he’d never actually heard it. It was a lovely sound, rich and deep, and it did strange fluttery things to his insides.

“Oh my god,” Potter gasped eventually, wiping at his eyes. “You were trying to be nice. Bloody hell, I need a drink.”

He walked over to a nearby table and picked up a jug labeled Turpentine. He popped the cap off and took a swig.

“Potter!” Draco gasped.

“Hm?” Potter asked, then followed Draco’s horrified stare to the label on the jug. “Oh, that. It’s not really turpentine. It’s Firewhiskey. I just put it in here to freak you out when you came to interview me, but it turned out I didn’t even need it. Here, you look like you could use some yourself,” he said, holding out the jug.

Against his better judgment, Draco accepted it and took a cautious sip. The familiar taste of Firewhiskey burned over his tongue and he took a larger mouthful before passing the jug back. Potter recapped it and set it back on the table.

“You were trying to freak me out?” Draco asked. He was having sort of a hard time following the plot, especially with that unicorn staring at him again.

Potter nodded and sighed. “Didn’t you wonder why I asked for you specifically to do my interview?”

Draco very much had wondered that, so he nodded back.

“I got so sick of people writing me about my work, offering me hundreds of Galleons to buy it sight unseen. I thought if everyone thought I was a horrible artist and more than a little mad, maybe they’d leave me alone. So I offered the interview and asked for the one person I knew would leap at the opportunity to show me in a bad light.” He grimaced and picked up the jug for another sip. “Didn’t quite work out as I planned.”

Draco’s mind churned, working through it. “So, these aren’t really your paintings?”

“Sort of,” Potter said. “They’re all Glamoured. Ron and Hermione came over, and we got completely sozzled on cheap wine and spent the evening trying to see who could make the most horrible one.”

“Whoever made the unicorn-in-shadow, no contest,” Draco said quickly.

“That’d be Hermione,” Potter said with a laugh. “She’s never one to be outdone, is she? And it’s supposed to be a bear, by the way.”

“I knew it!” Draco exclaimed. “I knew that bloody thing wasn’t a unicorn! What about the horse?”

“It really was dog, I was just fucking with you,” Potter said. “And that portrait of Ron really was supposed to be flapjacks, but with raspberries not strawberries.” He grinned at Draco. “I was a little frightened by how accurate you were in identifying what they were supposed to be. Like some sort of crappy art connoisseur.”

Draco chose to ignore that; he wasn’t sure if he liked what it might say about him. “The fake crying was a nice touch,” he muttered.

“What? Oh, where you were trying to convince me I wasn’t such a bad artist? I was trying to keep from laughing, actually. I really thought I was about to blow it right then and there because you clearly thought I was mental and there you were trying so hard to be so compassionate about it.” Potter sighed happily. “It was brilliant.”

Draco thought he should be more upset about Potter’s attempts at using him, but mostly he found himself immensely relieved that Potter wasn’t actually capable of painting those awful things. “So your real paintings are underneath the Glamours?” he asked.

Potter nodded.

“Well,” said Draco. “Let’s see them, then.”

“You want to see them?” Potter asked, surprised.

“Of course I want to see them,” Draco shot back. “After what you put me through? You owe me.”

Potter hesitated, then shrugged rigidly. He was nervous, Draco realized. Draco was probably the first person outside Potter’s close circle of friends to see his work. The thought pleased him enormously. Then Potter waved his wand and mumbled a spell, and the Glamours melted away.

The paintings were all mediocre. Wonderfully, refreshingly, blissfully mediocre. There was a painting of a bridge that, while slightly lopsided, looked exactly like a bridge. A charcoal sketch of a cat. A not-quite-symmetrical Big Ben done in oils. A portrait of Weasley in pastels that, mercifully, included all of his facial features. While it wasn’t exactly good, it was still more than good enough to be recognizable. 

The pictures near the front of the room were done in a stunning variety of mediums, but as Draco made his way deeper into the studio, the oils and charcoal and ink and pastels quickly vanished until at the back of the studio were nothing but watercolors. The Hogwarts lake. London at night. A park in a thunderstorm. Draco paused and glanced back at what were obviously Potter’s early attempts, too crammed with imperfect details. The watercolors were where Potter had obviously found himself, letting go of the details in favor of a gentle vagueness, like looking at one’s reflection in a fogged up mirror. And these were good. Not anywhere near _great_ of course, but solidly good. There was one that Draco found himself quite taken with, the view of a tree from beneath, like lying on one’s back and looking up through the branches just as Draco had done on dozens of idle afternoons in school. He half-turned to ask Potter, and then he saw it.

It.

Propped up against the easel was that octopus. (Squid? Jellyfish? Really, what was it?)

Draco pointed an accusing finger. “What is that thing still doing here?”

Potter ambled up beside him. “Oh, that? That one I actually painted. I did it right in front of you, remember?”

“So you really are capable of producing that shite?” Draco asked before he could stop himself.

But Potter only laughed. “Apparently. I was a little afraid I couldn’t paint something terrible enough for you, and then I was just so pleased that it was coming out badly that I couldn’t stop smiling.” He glanced down at the photo he still held in his hand. “I think I’m actually a little glad you didn’t publish this.”

“What is it?” Draco asked, stepping closer to it.

“Kraken,” said Potter, but Draco barely heard him.

There was another painting on the easel, something Potter had evidently just been working on that morning, judging from the paints and brushes and water glasses arranged around it, along with a half-empty cup of tea and a plate scattered with crumbs. “You’re working on something new?” he asked, moving around to the other side.

“Wait, Malfoy,” Potter said desperately, grabbing for his elbow.

But it was too late. Draco had already moved to where he could see the painting. He stood rooted to the spot, and Potter’s hand fell from his arm and he muttered, “Fuck.”

It wasn’t finished yet, but there were enough details filled in for Draco to get the gist of it. A bedroom with warm sunlight streaming through the window, a bed with rumpled sheets, and a reclining figure, sheets strategically draped over him, with long limbs and pale skin and blond hair.

“That’s not...” he began. “Is that really... You’ve painted me?” Draco managed. He glanced at Potter, who had flushed pink

He nodded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to see that. I just... I couldn’t get you out of my head. I thought painting might help.”

It hit Draco then and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. All the time he’d spent sighing over Potter’s pictures in the paper, he’d never imagined… “You’re attracted to me.”

Potter’s blush deepened and he nodded. He tucked his hands into his pockets, and he looked so embarrassed and awkward and not at all like the strong and capable Boy Who Lived to Save Them All. He looked like a young man with a hopeless crush and no idea what to do about it, and Draco wanted him. Wanted him and could have him, he realized.

“Yeah. Sorry, I never meant for you to--” Potter began.

“Potter,” Draco interrupted. “I really feel that I should tell you that this,” He gestured to the painting, “is not how I look after I’ve been shagged.”

Potter winced. “Sorry.” He looked like he wouldn’t be adverse to the floor opening up beneath him and swallowing him whole.

Draco stepped closer to him. “I also feel that perhaps I ought to show you what I do look like. You know, just so your painting is accurate.” He kept his voice light and deceptively casual even though his pulse hammered in his veins. He raised his eyebrows and waited.

Slowly, Potter’s head came up and their eyes met. “That’s... very generous of you,” he said carefully.

“Well,” Draco said with a smirk. “I’m trying to be nice now, or haven’t you heard?”

The beginnings of a smile lit Potter’s face. “I very much appreciate that.”

“Unfortunately I’ve got to get back to work now,” Draco said. “But why don’t I come by here tonight and we can get started on fixing your painting?”

“I’m not easy, Malfoy,” Potter said as his smile grew. “You’re going to have to at least buy me dinner first.”

Draco waved a hand. “We’ll order in,” he said. “I have the feeling that your painting needs a lot of fixing, and I think it’s best not to waste any time.”

“Maybe if it needs that much fixing, you should take the afternoon off?” Potter suggested, taking Draco by the wrist and drawing him close. “Maybe we should get started right away.”

Draco really did have to get back to work, but with Potter standing close enough for Draco to feel the heat of him, and with Potter’s breath ghosting over his lips, Draco couldn’t quite bring himself to care. 

After all, it was looking like he’d get the opportunity for all sorts of exclusive one-on-ones with Potter. What could they do, fire him?

They wouldn’t dare.

“Brilliant plan, Potter,” Draco said, and let himself be kissed.


End file.
